


Of Death and Sincerity

by Lapwing_1835



Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note (Anime & Manga), Death Note: Another Note
Genre: Again, Angst, Drabble, Gen, Oh Look All My A Headcanons, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Wammy’s House Is Seriously Fucked Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25323973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lapwing_1835/pseuds/Lapwing_1835
Summary: “I decided that laying curled up next to someone in their hospitable bed is the most sincere expression of emotion there is.”This is how monsters react when humans kill themselves.
Relationships: A & Beyond Birthday, A & L (Death Note)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	Of Death and Sincerity

What am I doing here?

A is finally at the hospital wing- well, he’s at the room with a few beds. It’s not the clichéd sterile white, but it’s not homey either. There’s really nothing extraordinary about it.

I wouldn’t like to die here.

A’s going to die in five days. They’ll probably release him in a few days; give him up as a lost cause or turn just another blind eye. It’s what he expects, it’s what I’d expect if I didn’t know, it’s not what we should expect, but that doesn’t really matter, now does it. 

His wrists are bandaged. If he’d actually been thinking when he’d done it, he wouldn’t have failed. He was in first place for a reason, after all. But maybe his judgement was fogged.

Or maybe there was something he hadn’t factored in. Maybe he’d forgotten about my insomnia, maybe he’d thought that I wouldn’t notice his absence when I got back to our room, late at night. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t care, maybe he thought I’d take a hint from the locked bathroom door and just leave it.

But it wasn’t his time. I keep telling myself that, that it wasn’t his time, that it didn’t matter if I called for help because somehow, he’d still be alive in the morning anyway. He’d have cut too shallow and someone would notice he was missing from breakfast (even though he never goes to breakfast these days) and they’d come to our room and break down the door and carry him to the hospital wing so nothing would have changed, really.

I’m not a sadist. I’ve thought about killing people— and yes, I know how that sounds, but I’ve been surrounded by death my whole life. It would be odd if I hadn’t thought of bringing it to it’s logical conclusion. But, despite that, I haven’t relished the thought of torturing my victims. It’s all a means to an end. 

I wasn’t going to open the bathroom door, at first, and that’s really what I remember. Laying on my bed and thinking about what he must be feeling, if he wasn’t unconscious. Thinking about him, slumped on the bathroom floor, surrounded by blood or puke or pill bottles, unable to die. 

So I went downstairs, and I woke Roger - wasn’t he surprised to see me - but I think I was behaving so differently than I do normally that I don’t think he suspected me of any malicious intentions. I barely remember it. I remember hearing myself talk but I don’t remember talking, and I remember watching myself watching all the lights go on and a gurney brought to our room, I remember vaguely thinking that A would be annoyed that all his school papers were tossed to the floor as they moved the desk to make way for it, but I don’t remember anything else.

I don’t know how I got here, next A’s hospital bed. 

I guess I just thought that he’d appreciate it, my being here. That he might be the only one who’d appreciate it. Because I’ve never been there for him and he’s never been there for me and we wouldn’t want it any other way because L doesn’t need people to rely on, right. And if L was in a hospital bed because he attempted suicide, no one would be by his side, but that’s not applicable right now because L would never attempt suicide and L would never lay in a hospital bed afterwards. So, really, we’re not L Number One and L Number Two now, we’re just A and B, and I don’t know whether A would have anyone sit by the side of his bed after he attempted suicide.

But I think he would. I think A would like to be that kind of person. It’s too late, of course, and that’s funny, that it’s way too late now for any of us to try and become whoever we want to be. We’re all just half-painted pictures but the artist got bored and left and now we’re just sitting on our stands and no one wants to buy us. 

In that moment, I decided that laying curled up next to someone in their hospitable bed is the most sincere expression of emotion there is. A and I aren’t those kinds of people. We do our best to be as insincere as possible. 

But honestly, what does it matter. Who are we even performing for anymore? All the staff at Wammy’s house are in bed, asleep (not a single one stayed up to watch over their star pupil, haha, haha, haha) and L’s somewhere overseas staring at a laptop screen and he’s never had to live so he doesn’t understand what it’s like to give your life away when you think that it’s just being borrowed and you’re seven fucking years old and then you never get it back and that’s so funny haha that’s so funny. 

Why can’t we put on a short little play- no, a scene- just for each other? I looked at A. Contrary to popular belief, the dead don’t look peaceful, but they don’t look grotesque either- that is, unless they’ve been in the ground for a few days. They just look dead.

A looked dead. He wasn’t, I knew, the numbers over his head told me that easily, but he looked very, very, dead. After a pause, I lifted the sheet next to him, and I curled up in bed next to him. I laid my head on his shoulder and my hand on his chest. I closed my eyes.

I didn’t feel foolish at all, because he was the only one I was performing for, and I knew he wasn’t judging me and calculating me and giving me a percent from one to a hundred because I could just walk right down the hall, if I wanted that. No, this was a private little performance, not for myself, not for L, but for A, and I don’t think anyone’s ever done a performance for A. 

Make believe. 

Make believe you’re perfect.  
Make believe you’re emotionless.  
Make believe you’re smart.  
Make believe you’re fearless.  
Make believe you’re sincere.   
Make believe you’re frightening.  
Make believe you’re exhilarated.  
Make believe you’re bored.  
Make believe you’re alive. 

Make believe you care about me. 

I woke up at around five am that morning, before any of the staff could see me there and interrupt my performance that was for A and A alone, but when I sat up, he grabbed my wrist, weakly, and I immediately looked at him.

He said nothing. 

But I knew, that if he had the energy, he’d be applauding. 

I bowed.

He smiled. 

I left. 

I was doing what I always do. 

I was acting. 

—

What am I doing here? 

I’ve never been to a funeral before— I mean, that’s to be expected, I’ve been isolated since- I can’t remember when. But I don’t remember feeling sad when my parents died. I was always an odd child, but I have a good memory, and I remember them. I think the people I met with, after my parents died, thought that I wasn’t sad because I didn’t really understand it. I was such a young child, and I didn’t understand death.

I always used to dismiss that idea. Of course I understand death. It’s quite simple, in fact. Be hard not to understand it. 

But standing here, looking at the coffin of my so-called alternative, I think that maybe I’ve never understood death at all. 

I’ve been paranoid, of course. It’s part of my profession, and I can’t say that I haven’t brought it to new heights. But... I spend a lot of my time trying to avoid death, when, truthfully, I’m not scared of it. I’m scared of dying, certainly, I’m scared of being powerless, I’m scared of pain, but I’m not scared of death. I think, if I knew I was going to die tomorrow, I would just accept it. I wouldn’t do anything differently. 

That’s what makes me think that I don’t really understand death because humans are always so very concerned with it. Trying to stop themselves from dying, trying to stop those they care about from dying, desperate to outwit death in any way they can. 

I have a respect for death. It is necessary to life, in the same way that sadness is necessary for happiness and loss is necessary for love. I can’t say I understand any of those, in anything but theory. 

I’ve never had the urge to cry at a death, either. I don’t think I’d cry, if Watari were to die. I care about him, certainly, but in a different way than the kind of caring that makes you cry for someone. I’d put flowers on his grave every year on his birthday and we’d both be content with that. 

But I feel like I want to cry, now, at A’s death. I want to cry because I feel like something important is missing inside me, like there’s a hole in my chest, like someone stole something important from me when I was very young, too young to remember what it felt like to have it, but when I realize what it was, I realize that I’ve been missing it my whole life and I don’t know how to get it back. 

I miss the feeling of loss. I miss the feeling of caring about someone and crying at their funeral. I miss being alive. 

And here I am, feeling sorry for myself at someone else’s funeral, someone else’s funeral which is partially- if not completely- my fault. I investigate this phenomenon interestedly, I think to myself that if I were human that I might feel guilt right about now, but I don’t. 

The funeral is over. The congregation- a meager one, the eulogy’s were positively awkward, aside from one boy’s, a boy with dark hair who walked up and talked about how A was his best friend and I couldn’t decide whether he was lying the whole time or completely sincere- is departing. I’m staring at the freshly turned dirt. I touch my face, and it feels wet, and I think I’m crying. I look around, but no one can see me. I wipe my face, and by the time I’ve walked back to my room, I’ve stopped crying altogether, as if even my body sees no point in putting on a show when there’s no one around to watch it. 

I call Watari, and ask him to get the quickest flight out of the country that he possibly can. He doesn’t ask why, and for half a second, I wish that he did, but then I realize that I would fire him immediately if he did so and I think I might hate me for that. In an hour, I’m sitting in first class, on a plane, with my laptop on the seat next to me. It’s a murder case, of course. It’s always a murder case. The first victim was married. I wonder if the wife is crying now. I wonder why I never cared.


End file.
